


They can't ever be fixed

by Pistol



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:03:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22041121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pistol/pseuds/Pistol
Summary: "I can't stand the sight of tulips," Deaton says as he examines the fine powder Stiles hands over.Hugs, bunnies, and tea to Coinin who beta'd this for me. <3
Kudos: 6





	They can't ever be fixed

Stiles remembers his time with the Alpha pack. He remembers it like he remembers Gerard's basement. Sometimes he has trouble deciding which is worse. 

He never sits in a dark room with a strong drink thinking about it like his dad does which his burdens, but sometimes Stiles thinks he should. Maybe with a pack of Lucky Strikes in front of him on the table of a dimly lit bar. That would be classy as _fuck._

Instead of having an incredibly poignant breakdown Stiles finds himself slowly but surely convincing those around him that he is an unstable mess.

Which, yeah, he _is,_ but still.

When Deaton tosses him a bottle of Modafinil to add to the bug-out bags he and Scott are putting together Stiles really can't figure out how to explain to either of them why he suddenly can't breathe. He can't find any combination of words that can explain why he caught the bottle, only to drop it after reading it. He doesn't even know if he wants to explain away the tremors in his hand or try to hide them.

The tiny off white pills that have spilled onto the table in front of him are looking up at Stiles and offering no help. They do offer clarity, energy, increased awareness of his surroundings, and worst of all, a trip down memory lane Stiles doesn't remember signing up for. Stiles' eyes are stinging and it feels like there's a boulder sitting on his chest when Scott finally brings the paper bag up to his face. 

"Stiles, chill man! Just breathe!"

And yes, Scott being overly attentive and worried isn't helping the fact that Stiles feels like there's no air or that he can vividly recall the smell and texture of a tiny room he once spent two weeks locked inside. Stiles can't remember what he ate for breakfast this morning, let alone what color shirt his dad was wearing, but fuck if he can't remember that the wall to the left of the giant steel-reinforced door had a crack in it that ran from the floor to Stiles' shoulder. Stiles remembers tracing that crack blindly with his fingers until they bled because he couldn't - they _wouldn't_ \- let him sleep. They just kept showing up, kicking him around and shoving more pills down his throat. They'd ask questions, sometimes they'd take pictures that no one ever talks about but Stiles knows were sent to his dad, Scott, and even Derek.

Stiles is pretty sure he could describe the crack in the wall with the same detail he could describe the bitter bite of regurgitated pills. He learned within the first three days to not stick his fingers down his throat, to just swallow the pills. Broken fingers and blood loss are effective motivators.

Somehow Stiles' body gets him up and out of the clinic before he throws up. His hands are clenching and unclenching at his sides in a combination of sharp phantom pains and the very real dull aches in his joints the doctors said he'll probably always have. 

Next to him the dogs go nuts in their kennels. Scott is fretting and speaking too quickly to follow but Deaton just watches Stiles, offering a damp towel and a bottle of water when there's nothing left to purge from his stomach.

Scott hovers for hours in an awkward silence dotted with aborted attempts at conversation. After a while Deaton asks Scott to retrieve a book from Peter, Scott resists until Deaton suggests Stiles could go in his place. Scott leaves with a soft hand on Stiles' shoulder and a hard look in Deaton's direction. 

"Thanks," Stiles says.

Deaton shrugs, pulling out two familiar mortar and pestle sets, masks, gloves, and a bag of wolfsbane. Stiles starts working without being asked and Deaton works silently beside him. It's almost comfortable.

Twenty-four ounces in Deaton asks him to pass him his finished products.

"I can't stand the sight of tulips," Deaton says as he examines the fine powder Stiles hands over. 

Stiles' hands stutter in their movements but he doesn't say anything and thankfully Deaton doesn't either. They finish up in silence. When Scott comes back with the pack hot on his heels, they're all trying too hard to act like nothing's wrong and like they had nothing better to do than hang out in a room where poison is being transmuted into its most potent form. Stiles smiles and rolls his eyes at them because he's learned that it's sometimes just best to ignore super-powered worrywarts.

Deaton looks unimpressed with them all, quickly putting the lot of them to work. He gets out his reloading press, placing it in front of Stiles before motioning for Stiles to get the rest of the gear out of the back while Deaton sets the wolves up with gloves and masks. 

While Stiles gets to work zeroing his scale Deaton shows the others how to weed out bad brass. It's amusing enough that the last lingering traces of a tremor leave Stiles' hand, watching as Derek and Boyd attempt to glare out unsatisfactory casings while occasionally reminding Scott, Erica, and Isaac that they aren't supposed to be throwing or building forts with the brass.

It's domestic in a way Stiles knows most people couldn't understand, but he appreciates it nonetheless.

Three days later Stiles is searching frantically through Deaton's office for a fire extinguisher - because 'being the spark' is oftentimes very _literal_ \- when he notices the picture of Deaton and a bald woman sitting on a porch. It's in the back of a rarely used section of the filing cabinets, almost hidden by stacks of vaccination reports. Stiles reaches out, brushing some papers out of the way to get a closer look when he notices that there are yellow and purple tulips in the foreground of the picture. Deaton looks happy, open in a way Stiles has never seen him, and the woman next to him has focused entirely on Deaton with barely contained mirth in her-

"_Stiles!_" Scott screams, reminding Stiles of his original goal. Stiles shoves thoughts of the picture out of his head as he continues his search.

_“And then I felt sad because I realized that once people are broken in certain ways, they can't ever be fixed, and this is something nobody ever tells you when you are young and it never fails to surprise you as you grow older as you see the people in your life break one by one. You wonder when your turn is going to be, or if it's already happened.”_  
-Douglas Coupland

**Author's Note:**

> Was previously posted, then taken down. Now it's back up. Beware the errors and typos, I suspect the files I found on my old harddrive are the pre-beta versions.  
Please don't steal any of my silly stories and change some names around and then try to sell them as books on Amazon or I'm gonna have to take everything down again.


End file.
